Coming in Hot off the Tail of the Dragon

In 2015, we spent a year in the States reporting to our supporting churches. Clayton, William, and Rosa were teenagers at the time. To accommodate life on the road while visiting these churches, we lived in a 29-foot RV and traveled extensively throughout the United States. Living in such a small space, we had to be creative with our belongings. For perspective, we had enough room to each have one washcloth, one towel, four outfits, a backpack for school supplies, and enough personal effects to fit into a shoebox. We were mobile, if not luxurious. But we had a bathroom that worked, most of the time.

The Trail of the Dragon, an 11-mile mountain road with 318 turns, situated in the Appalachian Mountains, attracts motorcyclists and sports car enthusiasts. In other words, small motor vehicles, not RVs, drive this treacherous path. But we were in a hurry to get to a church on the other side. Looking at the map, we decided that we could cut off a good bit of time driving the winding road through the mountain instead of going around. Little did we know, it would have been faster to take the longer, straighter interstate. Also, in retrospect, the name of the road should have been an indicator of our forthcoming peril.

When we reached the entrance to the Trail of the Dragon, we were surprised to see little shops selling t-shirts along the road and bikers sitting outside little drinking places, passing the time, as if they had just completed some incredible feat. They all stopped chatting and stared at us for some reason. A warning sign stood at the entrance to the road, banning any vehicles longer than thirty feet. I wasn’t feeling great about that, but our twenty-nine-foot RV would be fine, right?

I think our speed never exceeded 10 miles per hour. Each curve of the road seemed to bend our RV in cartoonish fashion so that we could see the back by looking out the windshield. Looking out the side windows proved inadvisable because the road was too narrow to see the edges; we simply saw the drop of the cliff on our right. This eleven-mile trek took around ninety minutes. When we finally finished the last twist of the road, bikers at yet more drinking establishments glared at us. Apparently, RVs are not welcome vehicles, even 29-footers. Oops.

Never expecting an 11-mile road to take an hour and a half, we were behind schedule getting to the church. Patrick had to max out the RV on a less treacherous but still curvy mountain road to get us there.  That meant we had to get ready for church on the move. Clay and Will first, then Rosa and I, changed clothes in the back. It is hard to explain the whipping back and forth that took place in the back of that RV while driving that mountain path. You might imagine getting dressed for church on a small boat tossed at sea. Our bodies thumped and crashed into the bed and each other as we dressed. We had no time for Patrick to stop and change clothes. Let’s say that a person can, in fact, change clothes while driving an RV in the mountains.

As we flew into the church parking lot and as I buttoned Patrick’s last shirt button, I told the kids, “We’re coming in hot.” We burst out of the RV just in time to set up our display and greet the church. It was a good meeting, I think. We left by way of the mountain road, slower than how we arrived, then drove the interstate.

One day, though, if I get a race car or a motorcycle, I would like to revisit the Tail of the Dragon.